


Oh Dear Bard, Sing for Me

by sunny_jordy



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fae, Blood and Violence, Choking, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dehumanization, Drowning, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Explicit Sexual Content, Fae & Fairies, Finger Sucking, Food, Hallucinations, Humiliation, Imprisonment, Kidnapping, Knife Play, M/M, Mind Control, Needles, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sleep Deprivation, Torture, Victim Blaming, Whipping, but generally just horrible
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-14 22:00:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28677798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunny_jordy/pseuds/sunny_jordy
Summary: Wilde's a spy for the meritocrats, trying to take down the web the fae beneath the city are spinning.I's a shame, then, that he flew too close to the web, isn't it?Now Wilde's stuck, and Barret can have his way with him.
Relationships: Barret Racket & Oscar Wilde, Barret Racket/Oscar Wilde
Comments: 33
Kudos: 28





	1. Meeting Up

**Author's Note:**

> One day I saw a meme about the fae. This is just one of the many results.  
> I have no idea when this will end but let's find out, shall we?  
> Mind the tags, and take into count this is just. General terrible everything. Please let me know if there are any tags I've missed!  
> And enjoy :)

It happens so fast, Wilde barely has time to acknowledge it. 

He has his ear pressed against a doorknob, invisible to anyone who would see him as he tries to pick up the conversation happening on the other side. He never dared to go this deep inside the Fae City, but he was following the shadow that has been stealing information from the meritocratic offices for weeks when he heard word about Barret, the fae crimelord, from a nearby street. Something about a meeting. And he had to follow. Couldn’t miss the chance.

Wilde is so thrilled and on edge that he completely misses the footsteps behind him, and only realizes he’s in trouble when a dagger is placed under his throat.

“You’ve made a mistake, mate,” the shadow tells him, pressing her blade to his skin. “Kinda obliged to take you to him now, y’know. Shame, t’was a fun game.”

Wilde doesn’t manage to utter even the first vowel of his spell before she stabs his shoulder with poison, and his world goes black.

___________

Slowly, he wakes up.

First his hearing returns to him, and it tells him he’s somewhere new. The ambience of the room is low, and there’s a soft hum in the air, one he heard only in the presence of the meritocrats themselves.  _ There’s strong magic here, _ the part of his mind that still seems to work whispers to him.  _ Be careful. _

After that it’s touch, and something is terribly wrong. Why do his knees sore so much? Why is he kneeling? And his hands, he can’t move them from behind it’s back, this is not supposed to be like this -

That’s when his vision catches up to him, and Wilde remembers.

The cave he’s in is lit with an aquamarine light coming from it’s polished black granite walls, small mushrooms and flowers spanning in their hundreds and producing the slightly disorientating glow. The cave itself is comparatively medium in size, and hazily Wilde makes a mental note of the various furniture and instruments strewn across the space.

And there in front of him, towering above Wilde’s head, is the fae king of the underworld himself.

Wilde has only seen him in a few snapshots, but he recognizes him easily - the finely tailored clothes, the pushed back hair, his sharp features. The only things they did not convey was how tall he is, probably passing Wilde. Not that he can check.

“Oh, you’ve woken up! How wonderful.” With a single fluid motion no mortal would manage, Barret falls to sit crossed-legged in front of Wilde, and he leans forward, a curious glint in his eyes. “So, what have I got here?”

Wilde seals his lips, and looks down to avoid Barret’s gaze. There’s something more than just interested or sinister in there, something he wouldn’t like to face just yet. Besides, he’s a trained professional.  _ Don’t converse with the enemy. _

“Quiet fella, hmm? I hope not. That’s not very entertaining.” Barret bends his head down to try and catch Wilde’s eyes, but he just shuts them close.  _ Think. Cast a spell, get out of the shackles, fight him if you have to. _ Barret just laughs. “And shy! I was told by my agents you’re quite the talker. And artist, if I’m not mistaken? What do they call you… Swift Angel? You get what you want smoothly, and your voice is from the heavens. Would you like to let me hear it?”

Wilde ignores him, and instead tries to murmur out the beginning of an attack directed to Barret’s mind. He’s interrupted halfway through by a cold finger being placed on his fingers. “Ah ah, none of that,” Barret scolds before removing his finger. “And don’t bother. Anti-magic shackles, though not permanent. Just until you’re drained enough.”

_ Stall while you think. _ “Drained?”

Barret gives a mockery gasp. “He speaks. Delightful.” His voice shifts from poisonous to sweet, and the new tone is the one that manages to really hit Wilde. “Well, I now have you here, after all. I figured I could make some use out of that fact. I’ve had my eyes on you for a while now, so you really did do me a favor by coming here all by yourself, weak and vulnerable without any backup to save you. My early Christmas gift.”

Wilde is very aware of the fact it is now June.

He swallows, and in doing so feels the ball sewn into the flesh in his throat. Then he remembers.  _ I just need to lean forward and swallow, press on it with the motion, and that should help me escape. That’s what they said, at least. I don’t know how, but it must be better than nothing. _

Wilde tries to lean forwards, but Barret catches the movement quickly, his hands pushing against Wilde’s shoulders and setting him upright.

Wilde’s ankles start to ache from the pressure of kneeling for so long.

“What are you doing?” The question is sharp, demanding, and Wilde doesn’t know if it’s good he finds this less intimidating than the sweet words Barret used moments ago. At least this is familiar.

He doesn’t answer.

Barret sighs. “Back to the silence, aren’t we?” One of his hands leaves Wilde's shoulder as the other keeps him firmly in place, and Barret’s fingers touch his mouth. They trail on his lips, feeling their shape, and almost gently, Barret’s thumb pulls the lower lip down as two of his other fingers enter the bard’s delicate mouth. 

“Let’s see… What do we have here?” The fae murmurs, and Wilde dares not move - not that he can, with his hands tied around his back, his ankles chained to the floor. Barret’s fingers explore his insides, tracing the shape of his tongue and snaking down his throat, threatening to touch the strings that produce his song. The smooth knuckles just brush gently against one of them as the hand goes impossibly deep down Wilde’s body, searching for an answer. 

“Ah, there it is,” Barret says, and without breaking eye contact with Wilde plucks out from his throat a shiny ball, almost a marble. "What's that? Hiding some sort of... Erase memory? Teleportation? I'll have to check." He shakes his head, and clicks his tongue disapprovingly. "Naughty, naughty boy. How are we supposed to have a fair game if you're trying to pull tricks on me?" 

Barret throws the ball away, and Wilde winces as he hears it hit the floor and roll away. The last way of escape Apophis granted him, gone.

"Chin up. Now we can have some fun! I haven't had a human in my possession for so long, you know. Not a valuable one." Barret pushes a stray lock of Wilde's hair behind his ear, and tips Wilde's head up with his knuckle, just slightly. "And you're special, aren't you, oh meritocratic servant? A shame, a talent like yours in alliance with them." He taps Wilde's cheek, and despite how fearless he is trying to stay, Wilde finally freezes under the touch. "No stress, though. You're mine now. I'll have you, whether your dragons like it or not." 

Barret's eyes glow momentarily, the night black flashing a hungry red, and out come his wings, long feathers like a raven obscuring them.

The crimelord has trapped the both of them like this, in a dark bubble, and so Wilde has no choice but to look at Barret as the man gives him a smile that is all sharp teeth before dropping his voice to a whisper. "Now. Do you want to start by telling me your name?" 

Wilde lets out a shaky breath, a fear he tries to pass off with a laugh. "You know the answer to that, I imagine." 

Barret nods, looking almost pleased. "I hoped you'd say that." He stands up sharply, drawing the wings in. "Let the game begin." 

___________

Wilde has been in the dark for hours - minutes? Days? He’s not sure, time loses meaning so fast here -, and the tingling in his throat managed to become a burning thirst, the shackles trapping him in his position on the floor surely leaving marks on his skin by now. Wilde knows that if he were to look, they will be red and ugly, but precise. After all, he hasn’t done any effort to free himself from them. 

He knows when he is defeated.

This was always an option, he knew. To get caught, to fall in captivity. What he can’t wrap his mind around yet is how he’s still here. He had so many safeguards - spells at the ready, hidden weapons, items the meritocrats gifted him so he would never be a plaything in the hands of the enemy. All drained from him or snatched away, and now he’s here. 

Wilde is also certain that the peace he has been granted is but a temporary state, and that Barret won’t give him the grace of a quick death.

He can still feel the man’s fingers inside his throat, stretching to reach his lungs. 

Wilde shudders just as the door in the other side of the cave flings open, and the eerie lights return.

Barret’s form is obscured from the distance they have between them, but that effect is gone in a second as he locks the door behind him and clicks his fingers. The mushrooms around them immediately change color, turning into a soft yellow, and Barret hums in satisfaction. “Hmm. That’s better. Oh honey, I’m home!” He strides closer, waving a small basket in his hand. “And I got you dinner.”

Wilde doesn’t give a reply to that, but Barret doesn’t seem to mind. Instead, he stops halfway though, and puts the basket on a small table in the middle of the room, with two leather armchairs placed on either side of it. 

Barret comes closer, and with another snap of his fingers, Wilde hears the chains around his ankles snapping open. He looks up to Barret, raising an eyebrow. 

Barret gives him an almost encouraging nod. “Come on, up you go.”

Wilde chuckles, trying to put on a light tone when he speaks. “I’m a bit, uh, stuck. No way to support myself up from this position, you know.”

“Of course, how silly of me.” Barret leans down, and with one forceful tug at Wilde’s elbow he forces the man to his feet. Wilde’s knees immediately wobble, the shock of blood suddenly rushing down threatening to knock him down. Barret is quick to catch him, though, and he loops his arm around Wilde’s waist, having him securely held beside him. 

“Slowly, slowly. Don’t worry, I can get you there.” His voice is again so gentle, and Wilde has nothing to do but to be drag along helplessly to one of the armchairs, Barret’s fingers pressing on his side all the while. It’s sickening. 

He’s placed to sit on the soft leather, and Wilde’s body sinks into the relief involuntarily, in a way that makes him want to cry.  _ I can’t break. Not now. This is too soon. For gods’ sake, Wilde, you’re acting like you haven’t been trained for situations like this. Even in defeat, you shouldn’t show weakness. _

Barret doesn’t wait for Wilde to get a grip on himself. In that time he went to the basket and came back, holding two different items in each hand. He sits on one of the arms of the seat, and tilts his head down to meet Wilde’s eyes. “I imagine you’re thirsty, hmm? Must be hard, all this time with nothing coming through those beautiful lips.” He raises up a small glass bottle, full of water and shakes it a bit. “You can get some, if you want. Just say.”

Wilde swallows hard.  _ You can’t do without water. And this is not supposed to be enchanted. _ “Yes.”

“Yes, and…?” Barret waits, but Wilde just stares at him back blankly. He sighs. “The only person you’re making it harder for is yourself, you know. But fine. I guess we’re not in the begging stage  _ just yet. _ ” He uncorks the lid, and places the rim of the bottle against Wilde’s lips. “Have a sip.”

Wilde welcomes the drops Barret pours down his throat, letting himself relish this short relief for however long he can. Maybe this would help him clear his mind.

As soon as the bottle is there, it’s gone, and Wilde can’t help the little groan he lets out in protest. Barret gives him a slight smile, and shakes his head. “So desperate, aren’t you? Don’t worry, there’s more of that for you, if you behave well.” He raises the second item he brought with him - one thinly cut slice of red apple, so much that the light goes right through it. “How about this.”

Wilde licks his lips, taking in with his tongue the few drops of water he can save, and gives Barret a tight smile. “I think I’ll give up, thank you.”

“You’re sure?” Barret waves it back and forth in front of his eyes, and even though it’s so thin, Wilde can still smell the apple, fresh and full to burst with sugar that shouldn’t be there. 

With no response from Wilde, Barret just shrugs, and has the slice for himself. “More for me. You’ll take it, eventually. You know you will. But…,” he rises up from his place, and makes his way to the chair on the opposite end of the table. “Thank you for making this a challenge.”

Barret leans back, his fingers clawing against the edges of the armchair, and smiles at Wilde, who still has to sit upright, with his hands bound behind him and aching bones. “Now… shall we talk?”


	2. Terms and Conditions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barret has an offer, if Wilde is willing to listen.  
> Not that he has that much of a choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updating quickly because I'm on a high? That's me!  
> Please make sure to look at the tags, as some have been changed/added - I think this is pretty much the list for now, but keep an eye on them.  
> Keep safe, and have fun!

“Now… shall we talk?”

Barret stares at him from across the table, gaze lingering, and it takes Wilde’s mind a few seconds to realize that he’s actually waiting for an answer. _Stay sharp!_ He scolds himself, before returning his attention to his captor. “I’m not exactly going anywhere, it seems, so sure, why not. I’m listening.”

“Hmm.” Barret pauses, as if considering Wilde’s answer, and one of his hands starts going back and forth on the leather, his fingers tracing small circles as he speaks. “What I want is to offer you a system. Some way for us to converse, if you will. I’d like to have information from you, and your name, of course.” He flashes Wilde a small smile at that. “And you probably want your own leverage here, don’t you?”

Wilde blinks, unfazed. “Obviously.”

“Right. So I have a proposition.” Barret’s hands freezes, and he raises one finger. “For every question of yours I answer - ,” and he adds another finger - , “I get two. We both have to answer within a minute, and answer truthfully. We both earn.”

 _Too simple._ “What’s the catch?” He feels surprisingly calm, now that he gets to sit and talk. Almost like he has any actual power.

Barret’s lips twitch for a second, suppressing a chuckle. “Spot it.” 

Wilde turns the words in his mind, and his shoulders sag. “What if one of us refuses to answer?”

“For me, well, then I don’t get my two questions, of course. As for you, though… Well. You’ll have to be punished for not doing your part of the deal, won’t you? It _would_ be rude.”

“Sure,” Wilde mumbles, trying to ignore the way his stomach is turning at the words, the chill in his feet. “And say I don’t like this deal. Then what?”

At that Barret finally laughs. “Then, you ask? I don’t think you’d like my other ideas.” He spreads his hands. “Come on. I’m giving you some control, and you think to deny it? I mean, go ahead, dear, if that’s what you really want. But I would be disappointed to know I’m dealing with a masochist. Takes all of the fun out of this.” 

The cold in Wilde’s feet climbs up, and he has to muster up every ounce of strength in himself to avoid the shaking his legs are begging to give out. “Alright, you’ve made your point, it’s okay.” His voice is slow, measured. “Fine. Consider your offer accepted. What now?”

“Well, ask away, darling. After all, you go first.”

“Oh.” _He wants to start now. Right, no problem. Fear is a natural survival response, so make sure to use it._ He takes a breath in, forcing some of the tension in his limbs away. _You can do this, Wilde. Whatever he throws at you… You’ve had training. You can take it._ Wilde clears his throat. “Okay. Question. What is the best way out of this place?”

“Through the door, obviously. I’ve heard the technology saves a lot of effort.” Barret’s lips curl up. “No need to look so upset, darling, it’s just a part of the games we play with language, hmm? I’m not lying. My turn…,” he taps on his chin, slow and precise. “What are the shift change times for the meritocratic offices at the London Tower at this time of the year?”

 _That’s… too easy. And not worth… punishment. Damn this._ “First shift is one a.m., and from there you’ve got the guards changing every four hours.”

Barret nods approvingly. “Good. You’re not lying, then. Happy to have you on board with the plan. Second question… What’s the code for the safe in the heart of London Tower? Never managed to crack that one.”

“Genuinely, I have no idea. Not in my permissions.” For the first time here, Wilde actually gives a smile that he means. It helps him feel confident, even if just for a moment, like maybe this is something he can win. 

Barret shrugs. “It was worth the shot. Back to you, dear.”

Every time Barret uses one of these endearments, there’s a rope coiling up in Wilde’s chest, tightening its knot of _scream run fight_ just a bit more around his heart. He can hear the blood in his ears, and ignores it. _Be clear in your question._ “In my current situation, in this room and this time, what way do I have of getting out of here?”

“You don’t.” His voice rises up a bit, mimicking Wilde. “Genuinely.” 

And Wilde can’t control the shaking in his legs anymore, the panic too strong for him to hide it. Barret is so calm, so collected about this, and he doesn’t _seem_ like he’s lying. _Aren’t fae unable to lie? Barret really doesn’t think I can escape. Which means, he knows there’s no way I can._ Wilde buries his nails in his palms, hoping to focus himself on keeping up the show of bravery, but by the sudden spark in Barret’s eyes, he can tell the man already noticed the trembling.

Barret rises up from the chair and makes his way back to Wilde, perching himself beside him on the seat. “Fascinating,” he whispers, fingers going down Wilde’s shoulder all the way to his wrist, where Barret starts tapping the shackles in a repeating rhythm. “You really thought there might still be a way out? Or are you just trying to fool yourself into security? I promise you, you are very much here to stay.” He sighs in satisfaction. “Oh, your trembling is absolutely exquisite, dear. I can’t wait to show you all the ways in which you can fall apart.” 

Wilde inhales sharply at that. _I’m fine. I’m fine. It’s fine. He’s trying to get into your head, don’t let him._ Barret’s fingers go back up his arm, the touch cold even through the thin fabric of the shirt, and his hand lands on Wilde’s nape, starting to slowly massage him. He presses just a little too hard, the tips of his fingers burying themselves into the skin in a way Wilde thinks would bloom bruises in a couple of hours. “Me again. Which one of the dragons do you work for, specifically?”

Wilde presses his lips together, and looks down to the floor. _No. That’s too much._

“Do really you want punishment so soon, pet?”

Wilde snaps. “I’m not your - “

Barret presses hard on Wilde’s neck from both sides, and Wilde chokes up on his own words, coughing. “Don’t finish that sentence,” Barret orders, his tone as calm as before. “Not my pet? Oh, but you are, _pet._ You’ll learn that, in time. Now, where were we…,” Barret loosens his hold, and resumes marking Wilde’s neck with his fingers, smoothing over the skin just before he presses to dig in a little deeper. Wilde tightens his fists, failing to distract himself. “Ah. My second question. You still have a chance to make this bearable for yourself.” Barret tilts his head to meet Wilde’s burning eyes, and by the twist of his lips Wilde can tell this is going to be bad.

“What’s your name?”

Wilde’s head drops down. _There’s no way I can answer this, and he knows that._

Barret gives out a sigh. “You can’t blame me for not giving you the chance.” The hand on Wilde’s neck stops moving, resting cool and heavy, and with a click of Barret’s free fingers Wilde feels the shackles on his wrists falling off. “Take your shirt off.”

Wilde’s blood turns from cold to hot at once, his face flushing an angry red. “No.”

“No?”

“I’m not going to - like, put a show for you - ,”

Abruptly, Barret removes his hand from Wilde’s nape and shoves his back, thrusting him out of the chair and head first into the floor.

His hands manage to break the fall, but they’re numb from the hours upon hours of being bound behind his back and he’s simply not fast enough. Wilde yelps in pain and curls around himself instinctively, cradling his bruised shoulder to his chest. His nose is bleeding, a small drizzle covering his lips.

His eyes shoot up to the table where the food lays, the glass bottle still standing. _That’s your chance. Grab that, smash it, stab his neck -_

With a kick, Barret turns Wilde to his back, and his shoe lands on the bruised shoulder heavily, making Wilde release a cry of pain he doesn’t manage to stifle.

“Last chance.” Barret makes direct eye contact with Wilde before pressing down with the heel of his black oxfords, hard. “Take your shirt off.”

Wilde tips up his chin, not looking away. “No.” 

Then it strikes him. _Stupid, no shackles mean you’ve got magic!_ He starts to murmur out a melody, but Barret doesn’t give him time, kicking Wilde in his jaw and more than efficiently shutting him up. Wilde shuts his eyes at the blow, his chest rising up and down fast. His head is spinning. There’s blood on his lips, on his tongue. It tastes acidic.

“Right. I see we have to do it the hard way, then.” Barret, still with movements so precise, steps one leg over Wilde before sitting, straddling him. “If you insist that much, I’ll have to do it myself. Though I _would_ love to see how you put on a show, darling.” From half-open eyes Wilde can see him loosening his tie and pulling it off the collar of his button up, before pulling up Wilde’s wrists above his head and starting to wrap them with the navy silk, effectively rendering him motionless. “And don’t bother trying to cast. You’re running on no sleep or food, I doubt you have anything beyond prestidigitation in you. That should go away at some point, too.” Barret finishes up the last knot, and sighs with a smile. “Now that you’re, eh - _complaint,_ let’s get cracking on that shirt, shall we?”

Wilde finally manages to direct a straight look at Barret again, and very pointedly tightens his mouth into a thin line. _Don’t answer. Don’t move, don’t scream. If you have to go through this, don’t give him satisfaction. It’s bad enough as it is._

Gods, he wants to throw up.

“Keeping quiet again, are we? You’re no fun.” Barret’s fingers start to work on Wilde’s shirt buttons as he speaks, slowly and delicately. “I wonder. How proud a man is that he prefers his captor touching him more than just taking his shirt off? Not that this is not fun,” he flashes Wilde a smile, “but it is curious. Maybe you need to have a few lessons about humility, pet. I’m sure it will benefit you.” 

Wilde’s stomach doesn’t stop twisting, his mind rushing with snarky remarks that he has to put all of his willpower into not spitting. Consciously, he knows Barret is trying to aggravate him, and that a response - no matter what - is what he wants. But it’s also humiliating, to lay here helpless and toyed with without fighting back.

“Let’s see you, dear,” Barret murmurs as he undoes the last button, and pushes Wilde’s shirt to the sides, exposing his chest. His fingers start trailing across Wilde’s chest and abdomen, marking lines and circles that send goosebumps down Wilde’s skin. 

“No scars. Amazing,” he’s still speaking softly, his tone so close to admiration were it not for the tinge of possessiveness in it. “You’re a spy, you’ve surely had to handle some form of combat, even if not much of it. You’re not very strong, but there’s still expertise in your muscles, so your body is not completely useless…,” his hand travels up to Wilde’s throat, and his thumb starts stroking the clavicle, side to side. “But with the way you speak, it seems like this is what you use the most to get what you want. I look forward to listening to you beg me with, pet.” 

“You wish,” Wilde lets out, then curses himself. _Idiot._

Barret nods, seemingly agreeing. “Oh, I do. It’s just that my wishes tend to come true.” He tilts his head to the side. “After all, I am the king.” 

Wilde refocuses his look on the cave’s ceiling, and locks his eyes on one of the bigger flowers hanging down from there, letting his eyes glaze over as the light from the plant takes hold of his view. _If you can’t stare back at him without answering, just don’t. But keep your mouth shut._

For a while, it’s just quiet. Wilde tries his best to drift off as Barret keeps repeating the motion with his thumb. He doesn’t manage to disconnect.

“I was going to have you in a bit more comfortable position for this, actually, but, since you insisted _so much_ to be of no help here, and you are already all exposed, isn’t that right?” Barret’s voice is nothing but gentle whispers now, and there’s not even anything menacing or cruel about it. “I think I’ll just have your lesson for today done here.” 

_He was just beginning?_

Wilde hears something slide and then click, like a mechanism that’s turning before locking into place.

Despite his best instincts, he looks down.

Barret has pulled up what seems to be like a pocketknife in its build, only it is much bigger than any other pocketknife Wilde has seen. The blade is long and thin, and the handle is golden, inlaid with emeralds and engravings Wilde can’t disfigure. 

_Oh._

“Do you like it?” Barret passes his fingers across the side of the blade, admiring it. “I’ve had it made for you. As I said, I haven’t had a pet for a while, so I thought I’ll treat myself for the special occasion.” He tips the knife down, letting it’s edge rest just above Wilde’s heart. “Aren’t you even a little honoured to have a weapon made specifically to be used on you? I find it thrilling.”

His heart is racing frantically in his chest, but Wilde doesn’t do anything but to close his eyes and give a silent plea to the void of fear that is his mind. _Just let me be strong enough to not satisfy him,_ he prays to his future self. _That’s all._

Now the knife is moving, dancing in soft swirls on his skin, tiptoeing up his torso to his shoulders and then pirouetting all the way to back down to underneath his ribs, all the while not actually harming him. 

It’s suspension, and it’s working. Wilde is on edge, unable to calm his physical signs no matter how hard he tries, just trying to anticipate when the blade will cut through and he’ll have to hold out against the pain. At least Barret has gone quiet.

When he does finally push the blade down Wilde’s chest, Wilde’s breath hitches immediately. Because it’s hot and it’s cold and Barret’s _pulling_ and no injury has ever felt so slow and precise, with a knife that is tailored to tear out veins and flesh and begging to bury itself deeper than it is given. And Wilde feels it, the hunger that is in this, and he doesn’t know how much is what might be magic and how much is just Barret’s sick pleasure out of this.

“Gorgeous,” Barret mutters, and his tone is _fond_. “Absolutely gorgeous.”

And as Barret gave him nothing to bite into, when it doesn’t stop, Wilde has no choice but to scream.

The knife travels everywhere exposed. It gives little bloody kisses to the tips of Wilde’s fingers, It caresses the lines of his abdomen and paints them ruby, it redefines his jaw and his collarbone and marks him whole. 

He no longer knows where he ends and the pain begins, his nerves in too much pain to make that distinction. The self control Wilde so desperately wished to hold onto just isn’t there, and he trembles and he cries and he has nowhere to run to. His only comfort is that he does not beg.

He thinks he hears Barret humming, somewhere above him, and he screams again.

Eventually, after what feels like a forever of agony, Barret stops his tune, and the blade goes away.

There are fingers in his hair, and he inhales sharply, forcing down another wave of tears as he keeps his eyes closed. 

“You did wonderful, pet,” Barret murmurs, moving away a few strands of hair that stuck to Wilde’s face from the sweat and blood. “Do you have any idea how beautiful you scream? It’s quite the catharsis to listen to.” His fingers move to swipe Wilde’s jawline, which is still letting out a thin stream of blood from the line Barret carved into it. “And you’re stunning when you bleed.”

 _In, out,_ Wilde orders himself. _In and out._

Wilde feels Barret’s thumb on his mouth, hot and wet as it smears Wilde’s own blood upon his lower lip. “I want you to taste it,” Barret mumbles, and Wilde doesn’t need to look to know if he’s smiling. The delight is in his voice.

He doesn’t respond.

“And here I was, thinking you’ve learned.” Barret takes his hand off. “I’m disappointed, but not worried. After all, we have all the time in the world.”

 _I can do this,_ Wilde tells himself. _I have to do this. I can’t… If Barret gets what he wants, my name, and what I can tell him… There’s no other choice._

He doesn’t have anything else left in him to be defiant right now, though. So when Barret finally stands up, when the ties that rendered his hands numb are removed, he doesn’t put up another fight. He lets Barret carry him back to where he had him before, to lock his hands behind his back, to chain his ankles to the floor. 

Wilde would like to say that Barret forces him back down to his knees, but he doesn’t even have to use much force. Wilde just falls back into kneeling, his muscles unable to hold him up.

Barret tips his head up with two fingers, looking down at Wilde, who has his eyes half-closed, on the verge of passing out.

“Good boy,” he hums with content, and then lets Wilde head drop down. “See you soon.”

Wilde is slipping even before Barret is out of the cave, his body slumping sideways.

His one last thought before he blacks out is that he has to find a way out.


	3. Small Blessings and Holy Waters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's hard, taking the time to breathe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, done with chapter three!   
> Remember when I was like "oh I don't know where this is gonna go, we're gonna just try"?  
> Well.  
> Took me some time, but as you can see from the number of chapters set, I now have an outline. Might slightly shift, but I know where we're heading and I'm so, so excited for that ride.  
> As always, all my thanks and love to the dear Romans who encourage me through and get excited with me over things, literally would not have written this without you.  
> Enjoy the chapter!

Unconsciousness does not spare Wilde.

He dreams of running in the dark, barefoot and bleeding, with no direction or clue as to where he’s running. All he knows is that there’s the sound of steps chasing him, and a quiet hum, and if it gets him he’s not going to run ever again.

He dreams of metal, cold and harsh and unforgiving, and it’s chaining him, tearing him up, breaking him apart.

He dreams of singing a song, but the notes come out twisted and wrong and he chokes, chokes, chokes -

___________

Wilde wakes up with a sharp breath.

_ It’s just a dream. Just a nightmare. Everything’s alright - _

He opens his eyes.

_ Oh. Of course.  _

Wilde buries his pounding head in his hands, and then freezes immediately.

_ I can move. That’s… new. _ It’s only then that he realizes he’s not kneeling anymore, and that there are no shackles on his wrist or ankles. Instead, he’s lying on the floor, apparently curled up on himself, and also completely naked.

With slightly shaking movements, Wilde rises up to sitting on the floor. The light in the room managed to change again while he was out, the plants now emanating a soft pink hue. The stone is cold, but the air in the cave itself is warm, alarmingly so. It makes Wilde want to curl right back up and sleep forever.

_ Gas? Some kind of environmental spell? Maybe just some air conditioning. Either way, I don’t like this. _

Wilde examines himself. Though he’s exhausted and hungry and desperately needs water, it seems like whoever freed him from his shackles also healed him up from the abuse he went through before. His skin is impeccable once again, the only trace of the latest events being a terrible ache in his neck. 

That same person also must have undressed him. Wilde tries very hard not to focus on that.

He moves carefully, stretching his sore limbs, arching his back, massaging his sides. As long as Wilde gets to have this freedom of movement, he’s going to use it to his advantage.

_ Time to do some exploring. _

The first thing he notices when standing up is the ward. If he hasn’t been trained exactly for spotting the possible obstacles in every situation, he probably would’ve stumbled into it without thinking, but he’s better than that. It’s simple - a thin red square drawn up on the floor, maybe thirty feet long on each side. Wilde doesn’t even bother coming close. After all, he has no magic, and trying to break through would not be a smart idea. 

So he is limited, but he still has some space to move through. What can he get to?

He picks up that the two armchairs and table are included in the space allowed to him, but besides them, it seems like there are two new features - a few items laid out on the table, and a  _ bath. _

Wilde approaches it cautiously, looking hungrily at the steam rising up from the clear water. The bath itself is simple - barely qualifies as a bath, really, more of a repurposed metal container, but Wilde is not very picky at the moment. 

He wants to get inside  _ so bad. _ He knows he hasn’t been in captivity for long, but there is something so tempting about sitting inside hot water and just unwind. As much as he can, at least.

_ Wait. Hold still. Finish looking. Besides, what if it’s another trap? At the very least, give it a short think before you jump in. _

Wilde sighs miserably and goes to look at the table instead.

Placed in perfect margins, he has three things waiting for him - a neatly folded set of clothes, an ornate golden bowl filled with water, and a note.

He picks up the scrap of paper first.

_ I might have been too harsh right off the bat. _

_ I expect to have you clean and dressed. _

_ We’ll talk over lunch. I hope you’re hungry. _

Wilde’s lips curl into a bitter smile.  _ At least the bath should be alright, then. Unless he’s feeling incredibly cruel, which is honestly possible. But this note doesn’t leave much for discussion, does it? _

He tosses the note aside and crouches down to look at the bowl of water. It’s small, and even then not full - Wilde doubts there’s more of a cup of water there. He’s about to pick it up and bring it to his lips - gods is he thirsty - when he catches his reflection and stops.

Similarly to his chest and arms, his face is clear of scars or marks, the only thing preventing him from looking at his best being the dark circles he usually prestidigitates away. 

But there are four purple circles on one side of his neck, and a respective singular mark on the other, slightly larger than the others.

Barret healed the cuts, but he left the bruises on. A mark, a reminder of where his hand held Wilde.

Wilde grips the edges of the bowl tightly, his knuckles white, bents his head down and takes a long, slow gulp of water. They’re cool on his tongue and light up the burn in his throat, but he keeps his pace steady as he works through drinking all of the water.

He won’t let Barret get to him like that.

Not in any way.

Long minutes after, his head is pounding a little less, and a set of actions is already forming in his mind.

Bath. Clothes. Try to make the bowl into a weapon. Attack Barret once he’s close enough.

_ If I manage to get a landing on his head, maybe, knock him out. It’s gonna be a one chance thing - I’ll have to be careful. But this seems heavy enough to do some damage, if I apply pressure correctly. _

_ But a bath for now. _

Wilde stands up and goes back to the bath, sliding one leg after another into the water before sitting down and pulling his knees to his chest, arms wrapped tightly around himself. It’s warm and the water reaches almost up to his shoulders, though there’s not enough space for him to sprawl and sink down in the way he would like to. Still, it’s nice, and it gives him time to take care of himself.

He takes some water in his palms, and starts cleaning himself where the water doesn't cover him - passing wet fingers through his hair, washing his face, going over his neck, ever so mindful of his bruises. It’s easy to forget they’re there when he can’t see them without looking at his reflection, uncomfortably so. Wilde doesn’t want to get used to being marked this way.

As he cleans and tries to rest, his eyes wander aimlessly around the cave, not really taking anything in besides the oddly calming feel the pink lights give him. 

That is, until his gaze focuses on one of the pieces of furniture sitting outside of the ward, and his muscles stiffen at once.

What his mind passed off as just a table before is actually a bit more than that. They’re hard to spot, but now that he’s noticed them, Wilde can’t unsee the leather loops at each corner of the metal rectangle, with additional length left out for fastening or widening them accordingly.

It’s not hard to guess what this might be used for.

With held breath he looks over the rest of the space, mentally noting what it holds. There’s a chair with similar hoops, and a few benches covered with purple velvet, each one with a slightly different build. One of the walls is also covered with items, the ones standing out the most being a large mirror, long looped ropes on pegs, and a high oak drawer cabinet.

Slowly, Wilde lets out the air he’s been holding. 

_ This is fine. Barret hasn’t been hiding his intents, you knew even before looking around that this is going to be horrible. He already gave you a taste of what he’s about to do, and you’ve made it through. This shouldn’t change things for you. _

Talking rational reasoning to himself doesn’t seem to help his fear much, but what other options does he have? He can’t succumb into it. 

The bath doesn’t feel so comforting anymore, and with dread Wilde pulls himself out. 

The moment he’s out of the bath, a warm gust of wind passes over him, and suddenly he’s dry, not a single drop of water left on him. Even his hair is back to it’s usual volume.

_ Small blessings. _

Wilde puts on the clothes provided to him - a pair of mid-thigh underpants and a long tunic that reaches about the same line, both made of plain white cotton. They're not revealing, per say, but the thin cloth and the short sleeves make him feel exposed.

Though, if he thinks about it, that’s probably the point.

He looks down at the buttons going all the way down on the front of the tunic, white too, and notices how empty it all looks, a contrast to the colorful everything.

Wilde’s lips twist into a small smile. 

_ I didn’t think prestidigitation would be useful, but maybe I can do something with this. _

He clicks his fingers, and there it is, just a fine golden line circling the hem of the tunic, almost invisible. A small rebellion of his own, an aspect of his reality he can control. It gives him momentary happiness before his face drops, and he gives out a weary sigh.

With nothing else left to do now, Wilde picks up the bowl and settles in one of the armchairs, shoving it between him and the seat. Then he resolves to just curl up, placing his head between his knees to block out the light. It’s a practice he has known since he went under training to be a spy, when the stress of the intense training and constant berating from his instructors became too much and all he wanted was to hide from the world. There was no privacy at their shared rooms, nowhere else to hide in that was completely safe to sit and have a cry, and so he found himself often bundled up in bed or tucked in the corner of a corridor, with his head down and his legs defending him from view. Wilde knew then that this doesn’t actually prevent anyone from seeing him, but he learned to pretend. The pose became meditative for him by now, so he tries it here, too. Even if the attempt is futile.

Wilde’s head shoots up at the sound of the door creaks open, his fingers flying to hold tight onto the bowl.  _ One chance. _

There’s a click of fingers, and then: “thank you, Ashen, you can put it on the table,” followed by a short-haired man, dressed in simple but fine grubs, who lays a silver tray on the table by Wilde. The tray is stuffed with food and drink -  _ don’t even think about it, _ Wilde scolds his stomach as it gives a small growl, - and the man gives Wilde a snide look, at which he only tips his chin up and hardens his features. 

“No need to linger, Ashen,” Barret comes into view, his three-piece suit replaced by a white button-up and golden waistcoat, a long indigo robe flowing from his shoulders and to the floor. The wiry man bows deeply, murmuring an “of course, sire” before scampering off and closing the door after himself. Barret clicks his fingers again, and then Wilde notices a soft hum returning to the background.  _ On and off for the ward. A good tell. _

Barret unties the knots of his robes and takes them off, resting them on the empty armchair before turning to the tensed up Wilde. “So, how’s my bird been doing?” 

Wilde’s grip on the bowl tightens, the metal pressing against his thigh, and he gives Barret a dead eye stare before answering. “Good. Bird?” 

Barret smirks. “You have a gorgeous voice, darling.” He strides up to the still unmoving Wilde, and tips his head up. Wilde doesn’t resist the touch as Barret’s eyes roam over his neck, hungry and pleased. “Hmm. Purple does suit you.”

Wilde jumps up on his feet, breaking off Barret’s grip, and swings the bowl to Barret’s temple with all the force he has.

Fingers curl around his wrist before he makes it half the way through, and without removing his gaze from Wilde, Barret presses hard, forcing Wilde to drop the bowl. It hits the floor and it’s swirling echoes in the silence before it stabilizes, and then it’s quiet.

They stare at each other for a few long moments, Barret’s lips a thin displeased line as he looks down at Wilde, still holding onto his wrist. Wilde’s blood thrums in his ears, but he doesn’t look away, his stance the most stable it was since he got here.

Then Barret slaps him and everything goes black for a second as the combination of bone and metal throws his head aside, Barret’s rings bruising his cheek more forcefully than any hand would. Wilde’s breath stops for a second before he grits his teeth and swallows in the pain, blinking as his vision returns. _.  _

“Rude,” Barret remarks, voice cool and calm, and Wilde hears more than sees him walk back to the other side of the table. “I hoped for a better welcome than this, especially after my kindness, but, well. It seems  _ not. _ ” As Wilde looks back up, his cheek throbbing in pain, he sees Barret picking up the half of a strawberry and offering it up. “Join me for lunch?”

_ “No thanks,” _ Wilde snarls, not really minding his tone anymore, and sits back down, trying to adopt a more nonchalant pose than he feels. “Too much sugar for this time of day, really.”

“Your loss,” Barret pops it into his mouth, licking his fingers as he pulls them out. “I imagine I can’t interest you in a drink, either? Wine, oranges, lemonade…”

“No, not really.”

“Of course.” He sits down, one leg over the other, and leans back. “How did you find the bath and clothes? I’m not  _ merciless _ , you know.”

“Hot, and a downgrade from what I came with.” Wilde finds that there’s nothing in his tone but rage, and if he’s honest, he doesn't mind it as he thought he might.  _ Anger is better than visible fear, at the least.  _

“Someone’s moody!” Barret chuckles, and picks up another piece of fruit. “Pet, if you’re insistent on being like this, we can give up on talking and just head on without. Surely, you didn’t miss being cut open, did you?”

Wilde crosses his arms over his chest instinctively, just over where Barret made the first cut. “Not really. Forgive my tone, I’ve just been in the captivity of a sadist for a short time now and I think it’s affecting my mood.” 

“No need to compliment.” Barret’s smile drops, and for a moment all Wilde sees is eyes of steel and a king of the dark. “You’re treading a very fine line, dear, I would be careful if I were you.” And there the smirk returns, and he’s ‘once again looking pleasant and sly, the coldness disappearing from his voice. “After all, you don’t want to anger that sadist of yours, do you?”

Wilde purses his lips, but doesn’t lash out.  _ Keep it. Use the anger when you both can and need it, not before. _

Barret nods. “That’s what I thought.” He pours a glass of dark red wine for himself before leaving the tray alone, motioning with the glass to Wilde. His rings glint in the light, golds and silvers inlaid with gems. “I’ve considered I might have been unfair in our last meeting. Why don’t you start asking and we’ll go at a slower pace this time around?”

“Sure.” Wilde untenses his shoulders, lets his hands fall back to his lap. “What was the shadow trying to get from us? I’ve been following her for weeks, still couldn’t figure why she was going to the places she did.”

“Giving up on the ‘how do I get out of here’, are we?” Barret chuckles. “Alright. I imagine you’ve heard the name Nikola Tesla.”

_ At least this is a safe route of conversation.  _ “Quite obviously, yes. But he’s been off the grid for at least twenty years now, and the meritocrats haven’t tried to make a move against him, so if to be honest I didn’t think he was that relevant anymore.”

“Oh, he isn’t. I had him executed a few years ago, when I finally got my hands on him. He was… good at hiding.”

Wilde’s eyebrows shoot up.  _ That’s… new. _ “I thought you’d be on the same side of the guy, considering how he destroyed meritocratic transports routes? I wasn’t around at the time yet, but it took years to rebuild.”

Barret snores, sipping from his drink before answering. “I imagine that’s what he thought too. Tesla wasn’t fae, but he wasn’t a mortal either. Got some fae blood in him, and from what I heard from him before he died, he wanted to get on my good graces and earn his place at the court. But we use the lines, too, and his little ‘accidents’ slowed down my trade for a while. It wasn’t pleasant. However - ,” he smiles a little. “I  _ am _ incredibly interested in his work with the meritocrats before his betrayal, and he did me the courtesy of telling me where they might have kept all of his official documentation. I just didn’t have the proper agent to carry this mission out for me, but Sasha is one of a kind. And she’s been doing so well.”

“Good to have a name for the face.” Wilde laces his fingers together. It’s almost like he’s conversing with an enemy agent over a nice meal. Almost.  _ I don’t like this. He’s being too free with his information, which means… Unless I manage an escape, he doesn’t mean for me to come out alive at the end of this. _ “What do you want with the documents, then?”  _ It also means that if - when I manage it, I’ll have intel. _

“Patience, pet. You’ve had your question, now I get my own. Let’s see..,” He circles the liquid in the ornate glass, drawing the silence just slightly longer than what Wilde feels is comfortable. “What makes a young man want to become a spy for the meritocrats, from all things?”

Wilde hesitates.  _ It doesn’t seem smart lying, and…  _ He glances over to the rest of the room, remembers the blade on his skin.  _ It’s not worth it. I don’t want to give him information, but I have to answer some of his questions if I want to get my own answers. _ “Money. It pays better than most jobs.”

“Interesting.” Barret leans over to pick a cherry, dipping it in the wine before eating. “Second question, then. It pays well, but so do many other jobs, and this is more dangerous than others; you weren’t looking just for money. You needed large amounts, and you needed someone to pay them to you fast. What was so urgent?”

Wilde hopes his voice doesn’t wave like it usually does when he brings this up, but he’s not sure. “My sister was sick, my mum was taking care of her. Someone has to pay bills and meds.”  _ Didn’t help, though, did it? _

“I see. Well, thank you for this, eh, endearing family fact.” Barret doesn’t seem too impressed, but his smile has only grown wider, so Wilde isn’t sure what to make out of this. “Your turn. Are you sure you don’t want to join me? You’re missing out on the food.”

Wilde shifts in his place, crosses his legs. The air feels heavier in the room, and he doesn’t know if it’s because he keeps expecting Barret to hurt him or because there’s magic he’s unaware of. “I’d really rather not. So why do you want Tesla’s documents?”

“You’re very interested in this for someone who has nothing to do with the information, but I’ll indulge you.” He sips long from his wine again, clearing out the glass. “I want the plans for the roads. How they work, how they’re automated, what are the places you can make shortcuts or secret passages away from warding spells. I have them, and business can flourish. Just under the meritocratic eye.” When he grins at Wilde he’s all sharp teeth and red eyes, his lips coated with just the smallest hint of crimson. “Doesn’t it sound exciting?”

Suddenly, Wilde is unsure about what the liquid in the glass actually was. “Depends on perspective.”

Barret gives a non-committal hum. “Yes. Anyways… How  _ is _ that family of yours doing?”

His mouth tastes bitter. “Dead. Happy?” 

Barret laughs softly. “That’s what I thought. You wouldn’t be so careless to throw yourself at a danger like spying on me if you still had someone to take care of, would you?” He stretches in his seat, cocks his head. “What do you care for, then?”

That hits.  _ Do I have anything, really? Everyone’s dead or left, by now.  _ Instead, he shrugs. “My work, I guess? Art, too.”

“We agreed on answering truthfully, pet. I haven’t hidden anything from you; what are you not saying?”

Wilde shifts uncomfortably in place. “I don’t know what you want. I used to care about some people. They’re not here anymore, so I don’t. That’s it.”

“Right.” Barret picks up the tray and balances it on his thighs, now just picking at various fruits while speaking to Wilde. “Next question?”

Wilde takes a few seconds to come up with a new one.  _ Might try a head-on approach. _ “Why do you want to know all of this? Not exactly questions to wring information out of a meritocratic agent.”

“Ah, but they’re still useful for me. Besides, I can’t pry for just official information, that would be rude! Speaking off... ,” he gives a sweet smile.  _ Not good. _ “I would like it if you told me which meritocrat you work under. But, I promised to be gentler this time around, so we can eliminate the options, at the least. Is it Guivere?”

_ Even by elimination, he can just guess it. If I refuse to answer from the beginning, I’m just inviting him to torture me sooner than later. If I do, he’ll get it right after a few. That’s not mercy - it’s a calculated way to get me. And he can’t know who I work for - it’s sensitive information, something that can tell him more than I would like. It’s dangerous to give him this kind of power over me.  _ Wilde breathes in deep, considering.  _ Getting information from Barret is good, but in the end, it’s just stalling the end result. _

_ You can do this. It’s fine. You’ll be fine. It’s just pain, Wilde.  _

He doesn’t answer.

Barret whistles. “Really? You’re stubborn.” He puts the tray back on the table and stands up decisively, smoothing over the unseeable folds of his vest. “On your knees, bird.”

Wilde gives him a blank look, locks his knees together.  _ This is fine. _

“Is it so hard to do what you’re told?” Barret sighs. “So much ego, and for what? Your pride won’t help you here. But alright. This should be fun.” 

Wilde readies himself to put up a fight - he won’t be successful, but at least he can  _ try  _ \- when Barret spreads his wings, flaps them once, and everything kind of… stops. 

Or maybe it’s him that stops.

It’s just a flicker of a second, but he can still see it, the way slick threads of iridescent black spread from Barret’s wings and shoot to wrap around him before sinking down, making him freeze in place. Wilde can still feel Barret coming beside him and grabbing his neck from behind, his hand easily covers half of Wilde’s throat. Barret pushes him out of the chair and down to the floor, down to his knees, and after that his tunic is pulled off from him. When time returns to its usual course - or is Wilde returning back to time? - he’s kneeling with just the underpants on him, Barret’s hand still holding him down. Wilde holds his breath and shuts his eyes as Barret forces him to bend his head, stifling the gasp he wants to let out.

"See? That wasn't that hard now, was it?" Barret gives a squeeze to his throat, choking Wilde just long enough to draw a coughing feat out of him when he lets go. His shoulders are still shaking in place when Wilde feels something snaking around each of his elbows and drawing them behind his back, locking his arms in place. It’s soft and warm, and when he glances back he sees the black feathers of Barret’s wings, each wing wrapped around a different limb. Combined with Barret’s hand on his nape, he’s held firmly in his position on the floor, the opposite pressure on his elbows and neck forcing him to bend forward and pull on his burning muscles. Wilde has to bite down on his lower lip, trying to hide how much pain this position causes him.

“Now, pet,” Barret says calmly above him, like they’re still just having a conversation. “Next time I tell you to go down on your knees, you go down on your knees. It’s that simple. Am I clear?”

_ Focus on your breathing, _ Wilde tells himself instead of answering.  _ Let’s try and count. One, breathe. Two, breath. Three - _

He shouts in surprise as Barret grabs his curls and tugs his hair down, pulling Wilde towards him and to look up at him. The bright pink light casts shadows on his face as he looks down to Wilde, his mouth a thin displeased line and his voice low and smooth.  _ “I asked, am I clear?” _

Wilde’s heartbeat picks up, but he still doesn’t answer, chest going up and down fast as he just stares back. 

He can see the short flicker of anger in Barret’s eyes, and for a second, it feels victorious, to have aggravated him. 

Then Barret smiles, sharp and menacing, and Wilde’s happiness dies out like a blown candle. 

“You know, love, I don’t feel so merciful anymore.” 

He clicks the fingers of his free hand, and Wilde sees them again, the oil-like threads of magic that spread out from him and go somewhere Wilde can’t look to, his hair still in Barret’s pull. He does hear it, though - something being dragged on the floor, closer until it’s in front of him, and then stopped.

With all the courage he has in him, Wilde manages to raise an eyebrow at Barret. Like this doesn’t terrify him, like he’s not acutely aware of his own helplessness at the moment. “You don’t?”

“Someone can’t keep their mouth shut. Alright.” His hand returns back to Wilde’s nape, and Wilde has to push down a whine of pain as Barret’s hand  _ shifts _ and sharp claws bury themselves into the flesh of his neck, accurately avoiding crucial blood vessels. He can feel his blood though, warm and running down his neck to his bare chest, leaving crimson trails across his skin.

“Next time, I will be more brutal with where I place my claws,” Barret whispers, and his hand turns back, his fingers smoothing gently over the wounds before reasserting their tight grip on him. “I don’t think you want that. But anyways… You know, you seemed to have benefited from your bath. Maybe some more time there could do you some good?”

Wilde barely has time to connect the words before Barret pushes his head down into the bath he pulled close, sinking Wilde’s head under the water.

Wilde closes his mouth too late, water already coming in, and he closes his eyes and struggles to pull out from the bath, trying to hold his breath even with water in his lungs so he won’t lose the little air he does have. He stops his instinctive fighting a few seconds afterwards, though, forcing himself not to waste his air supply and trying to breathe as calmly as he can. It’s not his first time being drowned.

Barret pulls him out just before he begins to suffocate, and Wilde coughs hard, his shoulders trembling as he spits out water. “I usually don’t take my baths like that,” Wilde manages to gasp out, voice out of breath, and he can hear Barret chuckle above him. He takes a deep breath and holds it, readies himself.

“I find most pets don’t. But they can be schooled to get used to it.” 

And sure enough, Barret pushes him back under, his grip on Wilde’s throat tight even under the water. It makes it harder for Wilde to hold his breath, but he’s prepared now, and he focuses on each breath he lets out, trying to space them out as much as possible.

Five seconds. Ten. Fifteen. Barret still doesn’t let go.

The longest time Wilde ever managed to hold his breath for was a minute. But that was in training, when he knew there’s someone ready to pull him out in case of an emergency, and it never felt like actual danger.

As the thirty seconds mark passes and he’s still inside, feeling the air slowly running out, he wonders for how long he can hold out now.

Barret pulls him out again on the verge of what he can stand, and Wilde gasps for air, breathing heavy. He doesn’t have the energy for witty comments anymore, his anger from before becoming just a desperation to breathe normally again. Barret’s fingers have not loosened their hold for a moment, so even out of the water he’s still struggling to breathe.

“Look down, dear,” Barret instructs, pushing his head down, and Wilde does, because where else can he look? 

The water looked pink before, reflecting the cave, but now it’s become darker, Wilde’s blood painting the water. Wilde tries to blink away the few tears he wants to let out, but his cheeks still get wet despite his best attempts. There’s something in him that breaks over the fact that even this one nice thing he managed to experience since falling in captivity has been ruined, too.  _ But what did I even expect? _

“Beautiful, isn’t it? There’s something poetic about choking on your own body fluids.”

Barret plunges his head down a third time and tightens his grip on Wilde’s throat at the same time, forcing Wilde to struggle for air as he swallows water and his body doesn’t know if to open or close his mouth, and he can’t breathe, he can’t breathe -

Wilde starts to struggle wildey, more of an instinct than calculated thought, desperate to push the water out of his lungs and breathe air again. Instead he’s only choking more as Barret joins his other hand, both of them now pressing on his trachea, air can’t get in and water can’t get out.

As Wilde drowns he slowly stops struggling, not enough oxygen in his lungs to let him move, and his body becomes limp in the hold of Barret’s hands and wings, not bothering to resist anymore.  _ He’s not killing you, _ he tells himself, and he doesn’t know how much comfort he finds in that, only that’s it’s a given fact.  _ At least you’re not dying. _

Then it’s hard to think and he sinks, limbs fuzzy, head spinning, nothing he can do to escape.

And then nothing.


	4. A Pain That I'm Used To

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time goes on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyo!  
> Apologies for the delay - had a bit of a time reworking the outline once again and expanding it. And I really thought this was gonna be a short one...  
> Chapter title from the song "A Pain That I'm Used To" by Depeche Mode.

They have a routine, from there on.

It’s hard to tell how time passes here, when there’s constant light in Wilde’s face, a changing array of colors, but he knows it does. He can tell by his headaches, the bruises he collects, the darker than ever circles under his eyes he catches in his reflections on water. 

Everytime Barret comes in, sometimes with food, sometimes not. Wilde refuses. Barret makes threats, they interrogate one another, Wilde trying to draw out as much as he can without revealing too much, walking around the lines of safety with his words. 

If he has luck, Barret simply gets bored, and leaves him be.

But he rarely does.

It feels like they’re rotating through a set of punishments -  _ no, torture methods, _ Wilde has to remind himself despite Barret’s words,  _ I’ve done nothing wrong - _ with different flavoring each time. He gets choked, cut, beaten, broken, sometimes more than one thing at the same time. It all blurs.

In the time he’s alone he tries to sleep, knowing how much he needs the energy, but even that is hard to achieve. He has never slept well, what with the stress and danger of the job and his own messed up sleeping habits, and being in constant pain doesn’t help that. Barret’s hands follow him even when he closes his eyes, in nightmares of new horrors he invents for himself and in corrupted memories of his life.

When he doesn’t sleep he walks through his little square of movement, trying to change the pattern of walking every few minutes to keep himself sane. That is, if he’s not left bound or shackled, and then he just has to wait. 

Wilde doesn’t give up, but it doesn’t mean he’s not suffering.

___________

The ink black rope wrapped around his right wrist is stretched even more and Wilde grunts as his arm is pulled harder, the burn in his muscles worsening. It’s hard for him to concentrate on not letting out a sound when both his hands are stretched outwards, the click of Barret’s fingers enough to make the knots tighten themselves. 

Barret crouches down to look at Wilde where he’s kneeling, holding out a thin bar of chocolate near his mouth. It smells rich, and Wilde presses his lips together to hide how much he’s salivating at the thought of eating it.

“Come on, love, just the bite,” Barret encourages as he moves the bar in small circles, making Wilde’s head spin. “You don’t even have to answer my question. Have this, and that - ,” he motions to the ropes - , “can all stop. What do you say?”

He’s so hungry. 

“I’m full, thanks.”

“Are you, now?” Barret drops his hand away, and sighs. “Maybe I ought to give you less water, then, since it’s the only thing you agreed to.”

Wilde’s eyes widen, his constant headache sparking up in fear. “N-no,” he stammers before he can help himself, the  _ “please” _ just a second away from escaping his lips. 

Barret smirks. “No what, pet?”

He winces at the word and subverts his look away, his cheeks burning with shame. “No, you don’t have to, the water is fine as it is.”

“I see.” Barret tilts his head and catches Wilde’s chin with his hand, forcing him to look up. “This isn’t going to end, dear. Aren’t you tired?”

“Aren’t  _ you? _ ”

Barret lets his head drop, and Wilde breathes in hard and fast, trying to contain himself from bursting out more than he already did.  _ A fine line. _

“I think you can do with a little less water.” Barret declares. “Now, back to business…”

Barret clicks his fingers again, and Wilde can’t help but scream as he feels the first tear in his muscles.

___________

He can feel himself slipping away, a little more each time Barret closes the door behind him. Wilde puts on a mask of normalcy, tries to pretend he’s holding up better than he does when he’s with Barret. But the moment he’s left alone he starts spiraling, his own sense of himself becoming more obscured and far to reach.

It doesn’t help that Wilde is not eating. He keeps losing his own track of thought, too tired and hungry to be thinking properly. He comes back to fantasies of warm bread in his mouth and wine in his throat, the comfort of soup in his belly.

Wilde tries very hard not to think of  _ who's  _ food he's missing, but it’s hard not to fall down the memory lane when he has nothing else to do.

He mourns over nights where the calloused fingers that healed him after missions fed him to his lips, roamed over the places they vanished scars away. He thinks of the way he would curl up in dwarf arms and go to sleep feeling safe.

_ Maybe if Zolf was still around, I wouldn’t have acted so foolishly. But he bloody left and now you’re not going to get to apologize to him. _

Wilde breathes in sharply when this thought crosses his mind, and tightens his fingers over the hem of his tunic, where the golden line he presidgitated into it still remains, so far unnoticed by Barret. A reminder that there’s hope.  _ You can’t think that. You will get out of here, and Zolf will come back someday, or you’ll manage to find him. This is not lost. _

He just doesn’t know how much power he’s got left in him before he breaks.

___________

“So, you sing?”

Wilde lets out a dry laugh from his place on the table. “I thought we’re not doing questions during the torture bit of our conversations?”

Barret gives him a tight smile. “Merely a curiosity.” He fastens the last remaining leather hoop around Wilde’s wrist, and then pulls out the knife Wilde has grown accustomed to be opened by, flourishing the blade around before letting it start trailing up his arm. “And a rhetoric question, of course. I’ve done my research, love, I know you sing for your magic. Even if you do so quietly.” 

The cold metal presses its blunt side against Wilde’s throat, forcing him to tilt his head up to the ceiling. “What about my singing, then?”

“I play the violin, you know,” Barret says instead. He starts moving the blade in soft back and forth motions, leaving just the most gentle of touches on the fragile lines of Wilde’s veins. “A private occasion, usually, but you could accompany me with this pretty throat of yours.”

Wilde’s breaths are shallow against the knife, from the tension in his muscles or careful calculation, he doesn’t know. “We can give that up, I think.”

“Hmm.” The motions stop. “I wonder how would you feel if I were to just split your vocal chords.” 

Wilde’s heart stops for a single second, before resuming in a frantic beat. His vision is suddenly blurry, his head pounding with blood. “Y-you wouldn’t.”

Barret leans to whisper into his ear. “Very easy to do without causing any harm to the trachea. You just have to be… precise.” He brushes his lips against Wilde’s earlobe, sending a shiver down his spine. “Watch your tongue.”

_ Sorry, _ is the immediate response his brain provides, and he has to shut his eyes closed to refocus himself.  _ No. No, I’m not. _ Wilde doesn’t give an answer.

After another lingering moment Barret straightens his back and lifts the knife up, placing it instead at the middle of Wilde’s chest. “Don’t worry, you’ll have to actually anger me for  _ that _ to happen, which I doubt you can do in your current situation.” He taps on Wilde’s chest twice. “Last chance. Your name?”

Wilde takes another breath in before biting down on his lip, tightening his jaw. He’s becoming better at not screaming. 

“Your choice, bird,” Barret notes as he raises the blade. “Your choice.”

When he presses it against Wilde’s sternum he starts humming, the same tune he always does.

___________

In some part of him, Wilde feels like he was bound to end up like this.

Even when he thought he’s going to be a playwright rather than a spy for the meritocrats - before his sister got sick and they desperately needed the money, before he dropped out of university - , he was an overachiever. Always trying to impress, wear the right mask in order to get that extra point or have the right friends in the right places. Probably the reason he got accepted into the meritocratic lines of work in the first place. Wilde knows how to please.

And it’s not like this approach didn’t have its pitfalls before his current state. If he just didn’t insist on going studying in London and stayed in Ireland, his family wouldn’t have come along with him. If he wouldn’t have tried so hard to come top of his class in training, maybe he could’ve done more to save his sister. If he didn’t have his head so stuck up in doing his work on the best side, maybe he’d actually been able to maintain relationships.

What’s the wonder, then, he ends up trying to spy after the most powerful man in the fae undercity?

Wilde opens his eyes with a groan. Barret has left him tied up around himself for hours now, scarlet ropes encasing his naked form and keeping his limbs curled against his chest. At first it wasn’t even that uncomfortable, but the passing of time made it so his muscles sore and his skin is painfully numb.

It’s almost better when Barret is there. At least then he doesn’t have the chance to beat himself up - Barret does a good enough job of it himself.

Almost.

___________

The next time Wilde wakes up alone and unbound, something is different.

It takes him a few seconds as he wakes up, blinking against the bright light Barret left him in, but… there’s definitely something missing.

It’s too quiet.

_ Where’s the hum of the ward? _

With shaky feet Wilde rises up from his curled up position on the floor, and warily makes his way towards the line on the floor which marks the magical barrier.

He listens intently, but the soft background noise he’d become accustomed to isn’t there.

Now that he tries to recall it… Did Barret click his fingers after he lowered the ward?

Wilde is trembling with excitement. 

Slowly, he lets his fingers pass over the line, until his hand is on the other side of it.

Nothing happens.

“Gods,” he whispers to himself, and still shaken crosses over. Still, everything remains the same.

He clasps his hand to his mouth as tears start streaming down his face, and he’s muffling a laugh that bubbles from his chest and out of his throat.

Barret’s made a mistake. He forgot. He forgot and Wilde can get the fuck out of here.

_ Alright. Control yourself, Wilde. You’ve still got to unlock this door. But that’s easier. And you don’t know what’s out there, but this is your chance. You have to act now. _

He’s not the best at lockpicking, but it’s still a skill he has, and so he ramages through the oak cabinet he knows Barret keeps his different blades in, trying to ignore how familiar some of them look.

This doesn’t matter anymore. He’s not going to stay here.

After some hesitation - he wants to be fast, but he has to pick a knife that is both long and thin - Wilde takes his weapon of choice and hurries to the door. It’s not a hard one to crack, from the look of it. After all, why bother when you’ve got magic?

Insert, wiggle it around, be light on the touches…

It’s so soft he barely hears it, but there’s a click.

Wilde can’t help the pleased smile that rises on his lips, allowing himself a moment of smugness before sliding out of the cave and closing the door behind him. At least he hasn’t lost his touch.

A shudder goes through him when the chillier temperature of the space hits him, and he examines the corridor he just entered. It’s wide and long to both ends, curving around and away from him to the opposite direction of the cave. The walls are made from dark cobblestones, illuminated only by an eerie green light coming out of mushrooms picking through the spaces between the rocks, similarly to the ones in the cave he just exited. And as far as Wilde can tell, besides the door behind him, there are no other room entrances there.

Most notably, it’s completely empty. No guards, no sound but Wilde’s breath.

_ Are they really cocky enough to leave no one here? Better that way. _

Since he has no actual clue regarding where the way out is, Wilde picks going right randomly, making sure to stay close to the wall, the knife clasped tightly in his hand. He listens for any sound, but it doesn’t seem like there’s anyone else there besides him.

Wilde keeps his pace slow and careful and tries to go in the opposite direction of where he came from as much as he can, figuring out that he must have been held in the furthest place possible from an exit. It’s hard to keep track of though, and he finds himself confused and forgetting just how many turns he took in each direction way too easily.

He’s relying on luck at this point, but he doesn’t have any other choice. Eventually he’s bound to find an exit, he tells himself, fighting through a wave of nausea from the lack of… could be anything, at this point. There’s a limit to where these corridors can branch to.

It’s after what feels like forever that he notices a change - a slight one, but nonetheless there. The lights that line the walls seem to change color, slowly brightening towards a soft gold, and he resumes his speed with renewed hope. Maybe this signals a way out.

Too caught up in the heat of the moment, Wilde turns a corner just a second before looking forward, bumping straight into someone taller than him.

He freezes in place, his brain refusing to accept what just happened.

“Well, isn’t this unfortunate.” Barret remarks.

Wilde turns fast on his heels, already bolting to the direction he just came for, but Barret’s hand grabs his elbow effortlessly, pulling him back against his chest before a needle punctures his neck.

His knees give out easily, the drug spreading too fast for Wilde to comprehend. His body goes loose and limp straight into Barret’s steady hands, which catch him seconds away from the floor.

“There we go, pet, nice and easy,” Barret murmurs into the crown of Wilde’s hair as he lifts him up in his arms, cradling him against his chest. “Your king is going to take care of things now.” 

Wilde tries to lift his head up, but he’s too hazy, fuzzy around the edges of his senses. It feels like his whole body is made out of lead, but he can still think and processes what is happening, more or less. His breaths are short and flat, like his muscles can barely manage the action.

Barret starts walking, and even in his state Wilde can understand they’re going back in the direction he came from.  _ No, no, no… _

He opens his mouth to speak, trying to ask Barret what he has done to him, but all that comes out is a faint whisper of  _ what… _ before it becomes an incoherent hum, his lips not entirely able to pronounce the words.

There’s a short tremble against Wilde’s side as Barret gives out a small laugh. “Don’t bother, love. Incredibly strong muscle relaxant, a poppy’s extract mixed with raw magic. There’s nothing you can do now besides… Well.” He chuckles. “I imagine you’re just going to have to find out.”


	5. A Gentle Reminder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After every disobedience there's a lesson to learn, and Barret makes sure Wilde gets his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyo!  
> Very happy to finally reach this chapter, I've been looking forward to it.  
> Please note that this one is starting to get into heavier things - shouldn't be too much more than the usual, but I think a fair warning is in place.
> 
> Unfortunately I can't gift individual chapters, but this one is for [illusemywords](https://archiveofourown.org/users/illusemywords) <3

Barret retraces Wilde’s steps back in the corridors, carrying him with the only sound being Wilde’s head bobbing gently against Barret’s chest. Everything in his body feels warm and fuzzy, and he can’t tell if it’s a pleasant feeling or not, his mind becoming slower in articulating anything more than feeling and basic thought as they continue walking. Wilde’s mouth hangs open still, his jaw as limp as the rest of him, and a thin drizzle of saliva is dripping out of it, a soft tapping noise that soaks the collar of his tunic and fills him with shame.

He’s staring up, trying to find focus in anything to ground himself, but the only constant thing is Barret’s face, so that’s what he looks on. The king seems unbothered by him, not giving him any further attention, and so Wilde’s eyes wander hazily to look at his various jewelry. Somewhere in the back of his mind he notes he’d never paid them real attention before, being always close enough only when he’s crying or writhing under Barret. Now it gives him something to do as he tries not to think what waits for him once they get to the cave, instead absorbing the golden lines dangling from Barret’s helix to the lobule, adorned with small gemstones that jangle quietly while he steps. There’s long thin crystals that reach the middle of his neck, half-translucent and shining in interchanging colors, almost hypnotically so. Wilde’s not sure if Barret is usually this plentiful of ornaments, but then again, he’s not quite certain of anything right now.

As they come near the cave’s door, Wilde can spot a hurryingly approaching figure in the edge of his vision. Although he’s not able to turn his head over to look, he can still hear the rustling of robes as the person stops short of them and bows down, steading their breath before speaking. 

When they speak Wilde recognizes the voice as the one of the servants who sometimes carries Barret’s things to the room, his voice on edge. "Sire, I swear the door was locked, I'm - " 

"Shut up, Ashen, you incompetent fool," Barret barks. "Just open the door and lock after me. I'll see you at my throne in two hours." He cocks his head aside and looks down at the dazed Wilde in his arms. "Before that, though... I have to remind my pet how to behave."

“Of course, my king,” Ashen quickens to say, and Wilde can hear the door sliding open, blinking against the bright light as they enter back into the painfully familiar place. Then the door behind them is locked, and he’s left alone with Barret.

Trapped again.

“Quite the trick you pulled here, isn’t it?” Barret murmurs above him as he strides to the chair placed near the metal table, and elegantly lowers Wilde into it, the man’s body falling in with no self support. Were it not for the high backrest that supports the length of his back, he thinks he might’ve slid off.

Fingers pass through his hair and fist themselves around it, pulling Wilde’s head back to look up to Barret with slightly hooded eyes and spread lips. “What shall I do with you, bird?” He sighs and tuts his tongue, shaking his head. “You do understand you’ve been a very, very bad boy, don’t you? And that can’t go without being taken care of. No, I think you have a lesson to learn.”

Barret lets his head drop, and Wilde stares down on his legs blankly, watching as his drool drips away from his mouth at the same time his eyes start stinging with tears. He can hear Barret walking away and opening a drawer, then coming back to him. Wilde shivers as cold leather fingers find his skin, and glances aside to see Barret's black-gloved hands pulling his wrists away from him and positioning them flat on the chair’s armrests, palms faced upwards. Then they’re replaced by a rougher touch of a leather band, one wrist after the other, as Barret buckles the hoops just a little too snugly to feel comfortable, but not enough to do anything more than leave faint bruises.

Wilde helplessly watches the same thing happening to his ankles, Barret spreading his legs apart and fitting them to the legs of the chair, remaining utterly silent while he does so. Wilde huffs involuntarily as the spread of his legs rides his already too short tunic up his hips and over his waist, leaving a strap of skin on his belly exposed to the air.

Barret’s hand comes to press on Wilde’s stomach, the leather smooth and alien on his skin and so cold it burns, and Wilde whines in protest, unable to control his reaction. 

"Interesting," Barret says quietly, but Wilde is not sure he’s speaking to him. “I’ve wondered how much this particular cocktail of extracts and magic would affect sensation, since I haven’t seen it in action…” His other hand grabs Wilde’s chin and lifts it up, and Wilde meets Barret’s snake eyes that stare at him cooly. “What luck it is that I have a test subject.”

_ A test subject. _ These words do pierce through the fog in his head, slithering down to poison his mouth with bitterness.  _ Me.  _

“Of course, I can’t have my subject knowing what’s about to go on,” Barret keeps Wilde’s head up, but the hand on his stomach leaves to pull something from Barret’s robes. “Eyes closed, bird.”

Wilde doesn’t register he’s obeying until the smooth fabric is already tied around the back of his head, Barret’s careful touch pulling on the knot to make sure it is secure. Wilde’s tears drip to his lips, mix with the drool and leave salt on his tongue. He gives a faint whimper as a single slick fingertip comes to play and tug at the side of his mouth, stretching it around playfully and examining its lack of resistance, pulling his lips to their edge of movement. It then moves to pass through the mess of liquids on his face, and when it is removed Wilde can hear a clear popping sound somewhere above him as it’s sucked fast.

Barret doesn’t comment, and Wilde doesn’t have to see to know.

A flap of wings and a gust of wind washes over him, his hair blowing back for a second before resettling around his bowed hand. Barret is touching his hands again, respectively placing something small and rough below each of his wrists before curling his fingers above it and starting to murmur.

Even in his current state Wilde can recognize Barret’s magic, its all too familiar slickness sipping around him in what he knows to be black tendrils. He’s never heard him cast before, though, his magic silent up to now, and if he had the mind for it he might’ve been able to gauge out anything more than a few words that sound vaguely familiar, melodical and stringing themselves one after another to a spell that is almost like singing. Barret’s voice itself is a buzz around him, low and flowing just like his tendrils.

A new sensation joins his confused haziness, and Wilde recoils as much as he can when he feels moist threads of  _ something _ spreading off of the rounded objects on his hands and starting to crawl their way across his skin. They wobble as they go, tightening after every few seconds as they gain holding points, sneak through the space between the back of his arms and the armrests as they make tight rounds around them. Their touch is awfully cold against Wilde’s still heated skin and he lets out a confused whimper, trying in vain to pull himself away from them.

It’s then that Barret finally cuts off his casting, and starts to speak. 

“Their name is  _ Cuscuta pentagona _ ,” he informs Wilde, one of his fingers trailing along a moist line, following its path. “You’d know them as a type of dodder, I’d imagine. Not originally native to our area of the world, they come from the north of the unruly Americas, a place of wild and fae magic alike. They were brought to this kingdom by my own early ancestors, and now you can pluck them at the darkest corners of underground rivers, see the lemony vines of this parasite as it strangles its host. 

“What’s fascinating about this particular species, though, is how it syphons away from its host. See, it sends these loveliest careful appendages, just like roots, and sinks them in so it can take away from the fluids of the other plant. Interestingly, it apparently also exchanges messages with the host. Directed correctly, that leads to some very nice things.”

Barret’s fingers trail up his arm, and the vines follow his lead, now reaching Wilde’s elbows, dulling the clarity of sensation in his arms even further and running shivers through him. 

“If you want to understand more simply what they do, it may be helpful to know that we the fae call them the vampire plant.” Wilde’s breath stops with a soft gasp, just as the plant reaches half the way to his shoulders, and Barret gives the slightest of taps against his skin. “Have your go, boys.”

Though he’s limp and powerless, Wilde’s lips still release a high-pitched wail of pain as dozens, hundred of pinpricks shoot out of the vines and pierce his skin, root themselves into his veins and tighten their hold. His head falls even further down, chin hitting the wetness of tears and drool on his chest. His heart clenches when Barret gives out a small laugh, and he sounds  _ delighted. _

“Oh, you are so pathetic right now, pet. It’s just what I hoped. So the drug doesn’t prevent involuntary actions, it seems. I’ll add it to my notes.” The gloves return to trace after the vines, still guiding their movements, the plant continuing to grow even as it sucks Wilde’s blood away. “The mortal conception of a vampire is quite the curiosity. Somehow you’ve become convinced they’re their own thing, when they’re just a certain kind of fae. They stick to the dark times of days and years, of course; and rarely do they possess the wings most of us do. Funnily enough, they are most weak in what they are famous for with your people - so dependent on blood drinking that they wither away without it. Unlike other fae, of course, which…,” Barret pasuses, and Wilde can hear the smile in his voice when he speaks again. “We just like the taste of it.”

The dodder is now covering Wilde from wrists to shoulders, going under his tunic to split and spread across his chest and back at the same time. They tease around his neck, too, a few sending exploratory appendages to stroke his collarbone, but Barret whispers, “that’s mine, loves. Enjoy the meal somewhere else.” And they retaliate.

Wilde sags in the chair, giving up on the little squirms of desperate attempts to get away from his growing cage. When he does he feels the vines dig a little deeper, a small stroke of a vine on his cheek -  _ was it fond? _ \- and then -

He throws his head back when the roots planted in him all pump at once, his senses blanking out in white pleasure, and he moans loudly, spilling spit everywhere. It’s a sweet blend of agony and bliss, one that burns in his every nerve and cell and renders his mind empty. 

Two gloves cup his cheeks at once, tilt his head to what must be an angle in which Barret can look at him. “As I said, the vampire plant,” Barret muses. “Pain and pleasure are both essential for that particular essence. And they make you look like the most gorgeous helpless mess, darling. A sight to witness.” One hand stays to hold his head up as the other caresses his cheek with its knuckles, and Wilde shudders under him, from the touch or pleasure, he doesn’t know. Then, slowly, Barret smooths his thumb across Wilde’s closed eyelids from above the blindfold, and chuckles. “In fact, that we can arrange.”

There are a few moments where Barret leaves him alone, and Wilde just has to fight how much he wants to submit himself to the thing overwhelming him with searing pain and hot arousal at the same time. He’s so weak, can’t bring himself to do much more than whine, crying harder when he feels his cock swelling up in his pants and getting harder by the second. It feels like he’s all wet, from his eyes to his mouth to his cock leaking all over, and he’s trembling without control as the vines keep pulsing around him, pumping in and out.

“There we go,” Barret says from behind him, and Wilde has to screw his eyes shut when the blindfold is removed, the light too oppressive on his shifted vision. He blinks, trying to ease the feeling that everything is both blurry and sharp, without much luck. 

Barret’s hand comes from behind to support his chin again, forcing Wilde to look at a mirror placed a few feet away. He meets his own eyes in the mirror, and his stomach falls. 

His clothes are almost gone at this point, torn off by the dodder vines, which have burrowed to almost every single point of his body below the neck at this point. They’ve swollen up and become almost translucent, a faint green filled with the dark red of his blood. Wilde doesn’t remember them reaching his legs, but there they are, and he watches now while small tendrils rip his pants away from him and crawl to his crotch. His breaths become even more ragged as they wrap around his cock, and he whimpers, watching with dread and desperation alike when he sees them exude a white liquid that makes goosebumps go all over him. Wilde is aching with need and suffering and he’s not sure what’s gonna drive him crazy first.

Barret leans down into his ear with a smile, his voice low. “Watch carefully, pet.”

Wilde finds himself obeying even when Barret lets go of his chin, fighting to keep it up as he watches Barret taking off his gloves and throwing them aside. Then the man gives him a toothy grin filled with sharp teeth, and when Wilde sees his hands again they end with long, strak-white claws, the color of his teeth.

He has but a moment to wonder what is coming next before Barret answers the question for him. His claws dig around Wilde’s tiny wounds in his shoulders, releasing a scream of misery out of him. They search around, tearing his veins and flesh, one or two scratching at the bone, and Wilde collapses into a mess of sobs and wails and moans mixing together into sounds he never fathomed exist. Barret laughs high, and just twists them in again.

After what feels like forever Barret pulls them out, instead grabbing Wilde’s neck with one of his bloody claws and pressing down to choke him. Wilde gasps, his instinct to claw at his neck to remove Barret’s hand but he  _ can’t _ and Barret just laughs cruelly again. “Now now, darling, don’t exhaust yourself more, you’re already spent,” he scolds. “And keep your eyes on that mirror for me, we’re not done with the show.”

His vision is already flickering with black dots, but Wilde still watches, sees how Barret’s other hand shifts back and slides into his mouth with three long fingers, smearing the inside of his mouth with Wilde’s own blood.

And then they start pushing.

They go first gently, a slow slide setting a rhythm of in and out, and as much as he hates himself for it Wilde is wrapping his lips around them, hoping to relieve the aching need in him to do  _ something _ about his arousal. He sucks on Barret’s skin, wet and slick noises falling in shame out of his lips, and Barret chuckles. “Giving over so easily, bird? I knew this mouth could do more than be rude or cry.” The pace of his fingers growing faster, barely leaving a space for breath. Each time the digits pull out they bring threads of saliva and blood, only to push them back in deep when they go again. “So soft and needy, you little slut. Didn’t know just how much you’ll be like that, but your lips have the expertise of knowing how to be thoroughly fucked. You’re taking my fingers so well, I wonder what else you can take.” Barret chuckles. “Shall we bring up the speed?”

The pushes lose gentleness, and Wilde has to stretch and groan as he tries to accompany another finger in him without breaking, crying from both the pain and how good it feels. “You see all that?” Barret tells him as he fucks Wilde’s mouth harshly with his fingers, forcing Wilde to gag around him. “You are  _ nothing _ but what I decide you are, pet. You’re weak and fragile and belong to me. I control your movements, your senses, your breathings.” His claws tighten around Wilde’s neck, choking him further, but all Wilde can do is moan around Barret’s fingers. “Always remember, pet,” Barret snarls. “Just because I don't have your name yet doesn't mean you're not helpless to my wants. I -,” he thrusts his fingers in once hard, hitting the back of Wilde's throat - , “own -,” another thrust - ,"you.”

Wilde is burning all over when Barret takes his fingers out, unable to even place sensation. The sucking of his blood, the lack of air, the overstimulation on his cock that manages to just make him harder without letting him come, it’s all too much. It’s too much. He can’t do it.

Barret drags his milky claws across Wilde’s neck, leaving four long red lines against his pale skin. He can just barely focus on their reflections in the mirror as Barret licks each one of his claws clean before his hand turns back, thereafter walking around until he stands again in front of Wilde.

“You have two options now, love,” Barret informs him as he cups his face again in his hands. “You can stay like that, unconscious and pumped and sucked, left to the mercy of the plants until they’ll leave you barely alive, empty and aching. This will go on even after you pass out, and you’ll still feel it and suffer. Truly, a joy.”

He smiles. “I could stop them, of course. All you have to do is give your name up.” Barret’s thumbs pull Wilde’s lips down. “You don't have much power in you to be coherent, but I'm sure you could manage that.”

Wilde twists his mouth, thinks hard as he tries to articulate his words through the haze. “Fu- _ ahh _ ,” he moans around the curse when the vines pump him with their liquid again, eyes fluttering as he fights to keep them open.

Barret smiles sweetly. “Yes, pet?”

Wilde can only manage to give a groan, shaking in place, his mouth hanging open and leaking the mix of drool and the blood Barret forced through his lips.

Barret leans down, and places a kiss on the wetness beside Wilde's mouth. “That's what I thought.” He straightens his back, and licks his lips. “You're coming close to giving it up. Soon, I'll have it. I promise.”

Wilde can’t make sound anymore. He can’t sob or moan or move but what is forced on him. So he just looks at Barret with eyes half-closed and dripping tears, naked and made into a human garden, and he has no words in his mind he wants to say. He can’t  _ think _ of anything that he’d say. The only thing he knows that even with the intense pleasure, he’s in a state of agony.

After another appreciative look, Barret sighs. "I think we're done here for now, pet.” One of his hands drops away, and Wilde finds he’s leaning into the one still cupping his cheek, unable to hold his head up. "Time to sleep." Barret cocks his head, takes in a final sight, and gives him a crooked smile. "You're so pretty."

Then he shifts, so fast Wilde doesn't register it, not until Barret's bloody hand meets his cheek with a slam and he drops unconscious with a deafening ringing in his ears.

___________

A few hours later, the door to the cave opens.

Barret enters inside and strides towards the still passed out man in the chair. He stops in front of him, taking the time to appreciate the softly pumping appendages wrapped around his body, the small spasms of his limbs, the hundreds of small contact points of dried blood against pale skin. 

A beauty. It’d be a shame to stop it, but his pet  _ will _ die if he doesn’t.

Doesn’t mean the sight needs to be forgotten, though.

The king pulls a flat surface out of his robes, a polished milky quartz about the size of his hand, and carefully places it in his eyesight so it captures the whole image of the spent out man. 

He watches as his ink black magic sips into the gemstone, and when it dissipates it leaves a perfect copy of the mortal’s form, something that can now be forever preserved and looked upon.

Maybe he should start a collection.

“Come back home, my darlings,” he calls, offering his hand up, watching with a smile as the vines pull themselves away from the flesh with soft popping noises and flying to gather in his hand as a unified long rope rolled up. Barret smooths a thumb over the wet shell of the plant, watching as the press of his pad rises small delicious dots of blood over the faint green. He’s got more than enough.

With a sigh of reluctance, he hangs the loop of vines over his shoulder and goes over to his pet, cupping his face in his hand and channeling healing magic into him. Barret lets his fingers linger over the dried tears, spit and blood, making sure that the scratches he left on the man’s throat won’t heal. Some reminders must remain.

If Barret leaves him like that, tied up and exposed, he’s going to wake up disoriented and drained, probably barely functioning.

Barret smirks to himself, and leaves.


End file.
